A Rose is Not a Rose: a Playful Digression
by uncloudedtripe
Summary: Fun romp through the HP universe in which a bold new student hides a mystical past and spends time pushing other character's buttons. Neville gets some special attention. Unexpected things occur. rr


Late Spring, on the last day on class

Neville sighed contentedly. There was nothing like quiet of the greenhouses in the spring. Nobody was there to mock or snicker. None of the professors were there to drag him aside and ask if there was anything they could do to help him outside of class…Cripes, if he heard that one more time, he would scream; well, quietly scream, perhaps. At least Prof. Sprout could see that Neville Longbottom wasn't all that useless. Plants were the one thing that didn't fall apart in his hands. He could ruin countless potions, charms, and spells, but he hadn't met a plant that has withered under his care.

He had been pruning some of the Violent Violets- a temperamental sort of plant that would tolerate few people's ministration; one wrong snip and they'll snip back. The purple flowers were equipped with a full set of thorny teeth that ran along the edge of each petal. Neville had found that once they got used to him, they would actually give him a strange, and somewhat unnerving, version of a toothy smile.

"You're looking rather well today," Neville informed the grinning flowers.

"I think they look like they're up to no good."

Neville jolted up and wheeled around, surprised that he was not alone. It had sounded like a little girl. But no one was there that he could see. "Hello? S-say again?"

There was a rustling in the far corner, where Prof. Sprout kept her favorite roses. Briefly, Neville wondered if it could have been one of the Rambling Roses that spoke up, but it sounded quite human.

"I never liked those violets. A little creepy, if you ask me."

Poking his head around a feathery Bird of Paradise bush, he saw the source of the voice; a girl, not much taller than he, with dark brown hair that looked almost aglow in the sunlight that filtered down into the greenhouse. She wore dress robes; mauve and trimmed with lace. Her face was round and child-like, but her eyes, dark emerald eyes, looked old and wise. "Wh-who, ah…" Neville stammered, trying not to stare.

"I'm Bramble Batoon. And you must be Neville Longbottom," Bramble smiled at him, a much friendlier smile than his violets had given him.

"How do, how did you-"

"I hear you have an affinity with plants. That's something we have in common."

Neville could only blush in response.

She raised her arms in the air to stretch, and yawned. "You caught me napping, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to bother you," she shuffled up to him, grabbed his hand in a firm shake. "It's nice to meet you, Neville Longbottom, but I should be going now."

Before Neville could articulate a response, Bramble strode out of the greenhouse, her robes flowing gently in the breeze.

First Day, Next Year

As far as Hermione was concerned, there was nothing more exhilarating than the beginning of a new year at Hogwartz. There was a nervous excitement in the air that could almost be tasted. Oooh, bring on the textbooks, bring on the lectures, bring on the homework! Her fingers were simply itching to grab her wand and start getting down to business. She was going to be the best darn witch she could be if it killed her. And judging by the way things had been in the past, it wouldn't surprise her if it did.

The first order of business after the feast in the great hall was to get settled in. The Gryffindor girls' dormitory was buzzing with the sounds of giggling girls chatting away, exchanging summer stories and the latest gossip to catch up. Hermione watched Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown leaning in towards each other so as not to be overheard, as if anyone would care what they had to say. Not that Hermione had anything against them, it was just…watching them made her feel like something was missing…

"What are you looking at, Hermione?" Parvati asked, fluffing her hair with an air of importance.

Hermione let her eyes drop back to her open suitcase. "I wasn't looking at anything, thank you."

Parvati leaned over, whispering something in Lavender's ear that set both girls into a fit of giggles.

Hermione set her jaw, fighting to keep herself from saying something she would regret.

"You're right," Lavender said loud enough to be overheard. "She must be keeping it for that nasty yellow cat of hers."

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione glared at them. Her cat, Crookshanks was at the foot of the bed, mirroring Hermione's expression. "If you want to tell me something, feel free to direct your conversation over here."

"I was just saying," Parvati started.

"Parvati! Don't be mean!" Lavender said, her arms motioning her to stop, but half-heartedly.

"I was noticing that the bed next to you wasn't being occupied. It's like there's some sort of hex on your bed that repels everyone away." Parvati turned to Lavender. "Well, she ought to know that even though the professors are in love with her, and even though she hangs around Harry Potter, she's not so much better than the rest of us. Not everybody is running over here for the privilege of your company."

And so it just happened that at that very moment, a Gryffindor girl ran right up to the unoccupied bed, and asked politely, though slightly out of breath, "Is this bed taken?"

Hermione smiled at the chagrinned Parvati and Lavender, both of whom were obviously trying hard to pretend nothing embarrassing had just happened. She turned her attention to the girl.

Hermione shook her head. "As a matter of fact, it is not."

The girl heaved a sigh of relief, flinging her load of luggage on the mattress. "Thank goodness, I thought I was going to be too late. I had been talking to the Headmaster, fascinating man, you know. And so generous. It's my first year here. I transferred over. He was giving me a few pointers when I realized it was almost curfew for us. Prof. Dumbledoor said I should hurry unless I wanted to find the last bunk available in the dungeon. I was pretty sure he was kidding, but I thought I'd play it safe." She paused, took a deep breath, stuck out her delicate little hand, and said, "Oh, by the way, my name's Bramble Batoon."

Hermione took it, surprised at the girl's grip. "Hermione Granger." She couldn't help but notice how small Bramble was. Surely she couldn't have been more than ten? But the way she spoke, with clear enunciation of her words, she sounded much older. "What year are you in?"

When she told her, Hermione was shocked to learn they were both in the same year.

"You're shocked, I know, everyone reacts like that. I'm older than I look." As she spoke, she opened her baggage, grabbing handfuls of clothes, books, and various school supplies, shoving them into the dresser with little or no organization.

"Um, I think you just packed your wand in that box of Frog Newtons," Hermione said.

"Did I?" Bramble fished out the box and peeked inside. "Oh, my. I was wondering where I put my wand, thanks."

While not the most organized witch she had ever met, Hermione had a feeling she had finally found a girl to be friends with. She couldn't wait to have her meet Harry and Ron.

"And this is Bramble Batoon. Bramble, this is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley."

Harry's neck craned down to look at her, and the first thing he thought was that there was something peculiar about this girl. Maybe it was the fact that even Jenny Weasley looked older than she did, but this girl was suppose to be their age. She was sort of cute, the way she seemed so interested in everything around her. Her big green eyes were wide, taking in the great hall where everyone was busy attacking their breakfasts with knifes and forks. The delicious smells of ham and eggs wafted through the air.

Turning to him, he saw that her gaze travel up to his forehead. "There's something on your head right there, Harry."

Harry nodded. It never failed. Everyone noticed it. "Yes, I know. It's the scar," he said.

"What scar?" Bramble asked, curiously, stuffing her last bite of toast in her mouth.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks. Did she really not know?

Ron leaned down and said in a low tone of voice, "The scar You-Know-Who gave Harry."

"You-Know-Who? No, I don't know who. Tell me," she said, oblivious to what they were talking about.

"Voldemort," Harry told her, amazed that she didn't know. "Haven't you heard about it?"

She swallowed a few gulps of tea before answering, "I don't think I have. What? Am I missing something?"

Ron choked a mouthful of egg, staring at her.

"It's a long story, Bramble," Hermione said, a bit incredulous herself. "I'll tell you all about it later."

"Honestly, I'm always the last to know things," she muttered, and resumed looking around the room.

"Was she Muggle born or something?" Ron uttered to Harry in hushed tones.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Hermione said.

"I-I didn't mean, er, no offence. I'm just trying to point out, ah…"

While Hermione was busy giving Ron a good glare, Harry saw that Bramble was waving at someone at the other end of the Gryffindor table. "Helloooo!" she called out. "Neville! Neville Longbottom!"

Neville looked in her direction with a sudden jolt of his head, as if he had been struck by lightning. His mouth formed an "O" of surprise.

"You know Neville?" Hermione asked Bramble.

"Oh yes, I've met him before," she answered, pleasantly smiling at an ever-reddening Neville. "I didn't know he'd be in Gryffindor. He's a man of few words, that Neville, but he certainly has a way with plants. That reminds me." She checked the huge grandfather clock that stood in the corner. Like most things in Hogwartz, Harry noted, it had a special magical twist. The clock itself was about three and half meters high, and in front of the clock face stood a half-sized old man. He appeared to have seen better days, for his robes were dusty, his pointed hat had flopped down to one side, and one of his arms was shorter than the other. Fortunately, he did seem to keep good time. With his short arm he pointed toward eight, and with the other he pointed toward five. "Let's see, it's 8:25 now. Hey, is everyone up for heading over to the greenhouses? I mean, since we have some free time until our first class, we might as well do something. I'm really interested in seeing the greenhouses."

Hermione was quite agreeable to this suggestion, but Ron said, "But Defense Against the Dark Arts starts at 9:00! A-and I still haven't finished my sausage."

"I think you've had enough to eat, Ron. Let's go. Besides, I've heard an interesting rumor and I'd like to check it out," Hermione said, and stood up.

Harry shrugged, "C'mon, Ron, let's stretch our legs."

As they gathered their things, Ron leaned over and whispered in Harry's ear. "Flighty little thing, isn't she?"

"I know," Harry answered back in a hushed voice. "She seems okay though. Just remember, she's Hermione's friend. Be nice."

With Bramble in the lead, they all made their way outside, past the vegetable gardens, and over to greenhouse #2.

"It's locked," Bramble said, tugging at the knob. "Pooh." She pressed her face against the glass.

"Of course it is," Ron said. "It's too early."

"No, Prof. Sprout comes early in the mornings," Hermione said. "She'll be here any moment, I should think."

"It's not here, yet," Bramble whined.

"What isn't?" Harry asked.

"The new addition," she said.

Hermione peered in with Bramble. "Maybe it was just a rumor after all."

"Oh, no, it's true. It's very true. Trust me, I know these things. Plants are my specialty. Hey, look who's coming over!" A broad smile of delight spread across her face and she waved her arm. "Hellooooo, Prof. Snape!"

Indeed, Prof. Snape was just coming over to them from the gardens, wand in hand. It took Harry a moment to realize there was something following him. It was a thorny bush of some sort, planted in what appeared to be a clay cauldron. As Snape approached the group, he muttered a command and the plant drifted down to the ground in front of them. His gaze traveled from Bramble to Harry and back to Bramble. "I see you have made friends, Miss Batoon." He did not look pleased.

Bramble nodded, cheerfully.

Snape's mouth twitched and stretched into something that might have been a strange version of a smile. Harry thought he almost looked like he was in pain. "How very, very…nice."

Harry squinted, the confusion of the moment throwing him off focus.

"Oh!" Bramble was leaning over the plant, taking a closer look. "This is fabulous, sir! Simply wonderful!"

Snape made a shallow bow. "Thank you." He then unlocked the door and, recasting his levitation spell, took the plant inside.

"Bramble," Ron said, in a kind of awed surprise at Snape's show of respect. "You've already met Prof. Snape as well?"

She gave them a mysterious smile. "It's a long story."

"Was that it?" Hermione's face was lit up with delight. "It looked just like the picture."

"Exactly!" Bramble said, hopping up and down.

"What, what is it?" Harry asked. The way those two were acting, Snape just brought in a rock star.

"It's the Transplant Rose," Hermione said.

Harry looked over at Ron to see if he was just as clueless as Harry. He was.

"You don't know about the most famous magical plant in the entire world?" Bramble gaped at them.

"It's okay, Bramble," said Hermione. "They're a little slow, but they mean well."

"Hey!" Ron glared at Hermione.

"Well, tell us!" Why did girls have to be so difficult, Harry wondered.

"Well, it was used by the infamous wizard, Benjamin Batlack, to instigate Wizard War II," Hermione explained. "The thing is, nobody knows exactly how he used the rose or what it did. It was back in the late fifteenth century and a lot of the records have been lost or destroyed. There have been all manner of theories and legends about what really happened. Some say the rose has the power to spring up anywhere its owner pleases and create barricades. I've also heard the thorns contain a special poison that is far more potent than anything man has ever found."

"How do they know Batlack used the rose to start the war at all, then?" Harry asked.

Hermione answered. "Well, the records that still exist mention it, but only as the source of his power. They described the effects, but not the cause. Many cities were hit hard with heavy casualties. How they died, we don't know."

"So no one has tried to find out the secret of the rose?" asked Harry. "Where has it been all this time? Hasn't anyone tried to use it again?"

Bramble wrinkled her nose. "They've been trying ever since."

Hermione nodded. "After the fall of Batlack in 1499, the Ministry of Magic took possession of the rose and has kept it under lock and key at one of the top security gardens. Thousands and thousands of studies were conducted on the rose to find out what makes it tick, but they were all inconclusive. They can't seem to find anything magical, much less deadly, about the plant. But it's definitely not your average garden-variety rose. True to its name, the Transplant rose can be transplanted to any variety of soil and under any climate. It doesn't die."

"Looks like an ordinary rose bush to me," commented Ron, looking through a pane of glass.

"Ordinary?" Bramble was indignant. "Shows how much you know about plants."

Harry had another question, though. "So, how did it end up here, at Hogwartz?"

Hermione shrugged. "I guess the Ministry thought it was harmless enough. If they can't figure it out, who can? I read in the Daily Prophet that they finally decided to donate it to the school to live out the rest of its days in peace. An excellent decision, I say."

"I'll second that," Bramble said. "Anyway, let's head on up to the castle. I think our first class will start soon. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

Ron was looking forward to finding out who the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher would be, as last year's teacher would not be continuing this year. Just like the year before last year's teacher, last year's teacher met with a peculiar fate at the end of the year. Ron made a mental note to never become a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher if ever such an opportunity arose. He'd have better chances being a glitter bomb defuser in Wizard War III.

As the clock in the classroom struck 9:00 sharp (or rather, it was more of a C sharp or D flat?), the dull roar of the students silenced. _Where's the professor?_ Ron wondered. _And is that smoke over there?_

Indeed, rolls of thick white smoke were seeping in from beneath the door, filling up the front of the room with smoke. Some of the Hufflepuffs seated in the first row began to cough.

"Is there a fire?" Harry stood up in alarm. Others were standing up as well, looking toward the windows in desperation.

"Sit down," Hermione urged. "I think I know where this is going."

"Sorry, everyone!" a voice in the smoke called. "So sorry!" The smoke cleared away into a thin haze, revealing their new professor. He was dressed in formal black robes with stiff, yellowing lace at his throat. It became more apparent, as the haze lifted, that he was also transparent. It was Nearly Headless Nick! "I always wanted to make a grand entrance, but… it seems I overdid it. Oh dear, are you alright, miss?"

The Hufflepuff girl in the first row nodded between coughs.

Nick cleared his throat. "Well, some of you know me as Sir Nicolas DeMimsy Porpington, ghost of the Gryffindors. I am going to be filling in for your professor for the next few weeks. Only temporarily, you understand."

Bramble, who was sitting on Ron's left, whispered to him, "Is that man _dead_?"

Ron nodded. "Haven't you ever seen a ghost?"

"Yes, but…" She had a glazed look in her eyes, as if she were in shock.

"Are you ok?" Hermione, on Bramble's other side, leaned toward her.

Bramble nodded vigorously and gave them a shaky smile. "Fine!" she squeaked.

"Settle down, now." Sir Nick squinted in the direction of the squeak. "You, there. Have we met before?"

"I don't think so. I think I'd remember a floating nearly headless man," Bramble said. "I'm just a transfer student."

"Right, so it says here. Right-o," said Nick, looking, for a moment, even a little paler than his usual deathly shade.

Defense Against the Dark Arts with Nick wasn't half bad. He gave practical lessons on hauntings, what to do in case of possession, and a few pointers on the undead.

"They're nasty creatures who don't seem to understand that the whole concept of death means the leaving your body where it's buried. The defense is a bit tricky, but you'll manage. Now what is it that the undead creatures want?"

Hermione's hand popped up.

"Yes?"

"They are known to seek out the bodies of the living, usually to ingest the blood flesh, and/or internal organs."

Nick, looking a bit nauseous, nodded. "Yes, yes, very good. So how can you defend yourself against something that is already dead? Obviously, you can't kill it. I'll give you a hint." He stuck out his chest and flung his arms out as if to say, "Tada!"

There was a silence in the class.

"Anybody?" Nick said, desperately. "Any guess?"

"Wear drab robes?" someone guessed.

"Just stand there?" called out another.

"Pout?"

Flustered, Nick said, "I-I don't, that is, no, no, that's not it!"

"Play dead?" Harry said.

"Ah! Very good!" Nick clapped his hands together. "Now, the trick is how. How do you play dead? You have to look the part." He wrote something on the chalkboard, using just his finger as chalk. Somehow, the effect was that of a ghosty white writing which was clearly visible on the board, although the handwriting was a little archaic. It read, "Shaddruli."

The Shaddruli spell turned a person transparent, but not invisible. He let the class practice for a while, but it was a tricky spell. Harry and Hermione got the hang of it, but the others were still having trouble. Ron could only make his robe transparent, which would have been extremely embarrassing if he hadn't had something on underneath. Bramble couldn't manage to become transparent at all. Instead, all her color, from her brown hair to her black shoes, faded into a flour-white. She looked more like a snowman than a ghost. Nick promised to allow some extra time next session for everyone to work of the kinks.

Neville closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was anywhere but Potions class. He wasn't sitting on a stool in front a big, empty cauldron. Prof. Snape was not glaring at him. None of this was real. _No_, he thought to himself, _I am in a greenhouse, a nice, safe greenhouse. _He pictured the ferns and the flowers, the occasional ladybug and lesser-known gentlemanbug, and even that girl, Bramble. There was something about her, something Neville couldn't describe. Thinking about her made him almost forget he was really in Potions class. Almost.

"Could you tell me," Snape asked, standing a little too close to Neville for comfort. "Why must you always sit in the very last row, in the corner seat farthest from me? Is it me or do you find my presence repulsive? I certainly hope that is not the case, Longbottom."

Neville swallowed, convulsively. "No, sir."

"Ah, good. Then I'm sure you won't mind moving up to the front row. How about the seat by Miss Batoon?"

Bramble turned around to look at Neville, giving him a little wave.

Trying with all his will not to blush, he gathered his things and made his way to the empty seat.

The potion they were to make for that day was called the Chatterfig Potion. Neville couldn't quite understand what it was supposed to do much less how to make it. It was hard to concentrate with Snape standing right in front of him and Bramble sitting right beside him.

"Now," Snape said, after going over his instructions. "As this is a partner potion, you must work in pairs. Not so fast, Potter! You'll be working with Miss Bulstrode. Weasley, you're with Patil. What are you gaping at, Longbottom? I think I made it clear that you're working with Miss Batoon."

"This'll be fun, my first Potions class," Bramble said. "I hope you know what you're doing, because I haven't a clue."

Neville, surprised to hear he wasn't alone and disappointed to hear he wasn't going to get much help from her, stared at the empty cauldron. "Uhhh…"

Bramble shuffled over to the ingredient table and filled a beaker full of some sort of green goo. She came back and dumped it in their cauldron. "This is fun!"

Neville squinted up at the blackboard. "I-I don't think Prof. Snape has that in the instructions…"

"We'll just wing it," Bramble said, and grabbed some assorted dry ingredients, including a handful of purple leaves that seemed to be wriggling in her grasp. She dumped in all in.

"Umm…" Neville didn't know quite what to say. He didn't know too much, but he knew whatever she was doing, it wasn't a chatterfig potion.

She stared into the cauldron. The liquid in there was turning a brown color. It was fizzing a little on the sides. "Hm, what do you think?"

"W-well, I think you're doing very good for your first day and all." Usually he was the one to get humored, not the other way around. He didn't want her to get in trouble, but he didn't want to say anything that would offend her. "It smells nice, at least."

She grinned at him. "Doesn't it? That's the lavender. We need one more thing. Hey, do you have any pocket lent?"

Before he could even register the nonsense of her request, he dug his hands into his pockets and retrieved a few pieces of gray lent.

"Excellent! OK, here it goes." She tossed it in, stirring with her wand. The brown color changed to yellow, and then to clear. "Look at that! We're done."

"We are?" Neville wondered what they were done with.

She shrugged. "Looks good to me. I like Potions class, don't you?"

Before Neville could answer, Prof. Snape, who had been making his way around the room to bark orders or detract house points, came to their desk. "What is this?" he asked, pointing a long, knobby finger at their potion.

Neville was holding his breath, clenching his jaw, and clasping his hands together to keep from shivering in fear. He was going to yell at them both and humiliate them in front of the whole class. What a way to start of the year.

"Oh, Prof. Snape. Look at this," she said, grabbing an eyedropper and filling it with the potion. She held it above the desk and squeezed the rubber end. A single drop fell.

Neville stared at the tiny puddle, wondering if it would be better for something to happen or nothing at all. As it turned out, something did in fact happen.

Something in the drop on the desk seemed to quiver, and without making any haste, it sprouted, and then before they could blink, a tender green stalk shot up about twelve centimeters and- it bloomed. It was a daisy.

"Isn't it cute?" Bramble said, grinning at the little flower.

Prof. Snape's bushy eyebrows drew together, and he stared at the daisy as if it were something the likes of which he had never seen. "This is not the Chatterfig Potion," he said.

"It isn't? Well, I'm not very good at Potions, I guess," Bramble said. Squeezing another drop, this time on the end of her wand, another daisy sprung up.

By now, they had the attention of everyone in the class. The room went quiet. Everyone waited to see what Snape would do.

He stood there for a while, then he tightened his hands into fists. He closed his eyes, took three very deep breathes, and then opened them again. With a quick swipe of his arm, he grabbed the daisy on the desk, and plucked it.

Another daisy sprung up in its place.

A few girls in the class giggled, Bramble among them. "You like daisies, sir?" she asked.

Snape, taking another deep breath, tucked the flower into a pocket on the inside of his robe. "Very nice," he muttered. Sitting down at his desk, he said aloud to the class, "Fifty points for Gryffindor. Creativity is essential to the creation of potions." He didn't sound very enthusiastic, but to Neville, no kinder words had he ever uttered.

"Isn't Prof. Snape great?" Bramble whispered to him. "I love this class."

"I'm trying to figure you out," Hermione said. She was watching Bramble brushing her dark brown hair as she was getting ready to go to bed. "There's something about you, something…"

Bramble smiled, mysteriously. "Something odd?"

Hermione shook her head, surprised. "No, no, I wouldn't say- well, a little, I guess."

"That's okay. It's perfectly true. I'm odd. People used to tell me I give off a 'weird vibe' or they get a 'funny feeling' about me. I'm not sure if I do that consciously or if it's just one of the side effects."

"Side effects of what?" Hermione didn't like the sound of that.

"Nothing, nothing." Bramble set down her brush and sat on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth with a mischievous grin.

"It's nothing…bad…is it?" Hermione asked tentatively.

She shook her head. "Nope, not bad at all. Don't worry about it."

"But, you're not sick or anything, are you?"

Bramble laughed. "I've never been healthier in my life."

"Did anybody put a curse on you? Is that it?"

"Nope! Definitely not."

Hermione frowned, thoughtfully. "How come you've met so many people here if this is your first year?"

Bramble leaned forward and said in a singsong voice, "It's a se-cret!"

Hermione was beginning to get annoyed. She flopped down flat on her bed. "Fine."

"I'll tell you, Hermione," she said, the childish air gone. Her voice was soft and tender. "One day, I promise."

"But you're okay, aren't you?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," she said. "And…thank you… for being my friend."

Hermione smiled, touched. "Thank _you_. Good night, Bramble."

"Good night."

The Gryffindors had Herbology the next day with the Slytherins. Harry had wondered when he'd have his first, inevitable run-in with Malfoy. They were all standing around greenhouse two, waiting for Prof. Sprout to arrive.

"Is that your new girlfriend, Potter?" Malfoy sneered. Crabbe and Goyle stood behind him as a backdrop.

"Shut up." Harry turned his back away from his adversary.

Bramble squinted at Malfoy. "I just met Harry yesterday. What kind of girl do you think I am?"

Malfoy took a good look at her. "I don't know, what kind of little girl are you? Shouldn't you be with the first years, little girl?"

Crabbe and Goyle laughed slow, heavy chuckles.

"She's a strange one, isn't she, boys? There something about her…"

Crabbe and Goyle nodded.

Bramble took a good look at him. "You're Draco Malfoy. Prof. Snape told me about you."

"And told you that I was his favorite pupil, no doubt."

Bramble smiled, innocently. "Something like that."

Malfoy clutched his hands into fists. "I can see you're just like the rest of them."

"I'm not like the rest of anybody," she said, and took out her wand, daisy still attached.

With catlike reflexes, Malfoy reached for his wand, but froze when he saw her flower-wand. "What is that? Are you giving me a pretty flower, little girl?"

"You'll like this one," she said, and then shouted, "Chrysanthemum x superbum!"

Instantly, a daisy sprouted on the crown of Malfoy's head. At first he didn't notice, but when Harry and Ron, not to mention Crabbe and Goyle fell on the ground, laughing and pointing at his head, he discovered his new appendage. He yanked it out, wincing a little with pain.

Hermione wasn't laughing at all. She was watching Prof. Sprout running over as fast as her short legs could take her. "She saw you, Bramble! You're going to get in trouble!"

Bramble shoved her flower-wand back in her robes, feigning innocence.

"Ms. Batoon!" Prof. Sprout yelled. "Did you just throw at hex on Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to confirm the statement himself, but he didn't need to. Bramble sighed and said, "Well, yes, I suppose I did. That was bad judgement on my part."

Prof. Sprout shook her head. "I appreciate your honesty, but I'm afraid you must be punished. I shall see Prof. Snape and schedule your detention. Do you understand?"

Bramble nodded, solemnly.

Everyone settled down and they all went into the greenhouse. Prof. Sprout directed them to stand in a semicircle in the back corner where the Transplant Rose was.

"This, my dears, is the Transplant Rose! It's the legendary rose that is said to have brought on the second Wizard War."

Most of the class stared at the little bush blankly. Bramble made some more "ooh" / "ahh" sounds. Oddly enough, Malfoy seemed to share her interest.

"My father said it can kill entire armies in seconds. How does it work?" he asked.

"Nobody knows for sure," Prof. Sprout said. She took some pruning shears and cut off a stray twig, lovingly. "It is quite possible that the legend is just that; a myth." She discussed the history at length, a history derived from scraps of letters, vague reports, and represented on pottery and tapestries—a history rife with mystery. And then something very odd happed. A blossom began to bulge from the tip of a stem. The class was suddenly very quiet. Some of the girls gasped in suspense and fear. It bloomed, an extraordinarily delicate bell-shaped flower in a soft blue hue. Most definitely not a rose at all. Several students pointed out the obvious.

Prof. Sprout paled. "Class dismissed! Dismissed! Oh dear."

Prof. Snape looked up from the parchment before him. His earnest, serious expression did not change as he laid down his quill on the stained surface of his desk. Somehow he seemed older, tired. "You, young lady, need to practice self-restraint. Is that clear?"

Bramble sat down in a leather chair, knees together, hands in lap. "Yes it is. However the same is true of your star pupil. He is Instigation's poster child."

The lines in his face multiplied as he frowned. "Try not to show off, will you? Try that out. You are attracting attention. The last thing we want is for the Dark Lord to become involved." He gave her a long stare to let it sink in and then returned to the parchment, scribbling a few more lines before letting the quill down again. "How much longer will it be before you produce the rose? Dumbledoor and I grow anxious."

She undid the top two buttons of her white uniform shirt, pulling down the tie. "It begins." In the hollow of her throat was a small, pea-sized bud.

Word spread that the Transplant rose in the greenhouse was a fake. All the students buzzed with the gossip, adding on juicy theories of its kidnap and the impending end of the world. Prof. Sprout was quick to assure everyone that it was only a minor mix-up with the Ministry, nothing to worry about, and now let's go pull some weeds.

Neville and Bramble worked side-by-side, yanking out some particularly persistent weeds. A few rows over, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had their heads together, completely neglecting the plants.

"You've been quiet lately," Neville said, eyes focused on the soil.

Bramble made a non-committal noise.

"And thirsty." He said this just as she was reaching for her bottled water on the ground.

She took a few gulps before capping it off again. "It's pretty warm out."

"Quite so." He grunted as he struggled with a particularly nasty weed. "I'm just worried, that's all. Worried about y-you."

"No need. I can take care of myself."

Neville let the weed go, ignoring its snigger of defiance. He leaned toward her and, in a low voice, said, "Then why have you come to Hogwartz?"

She stiffened, glancing at him. "I'm just a transplan—transfer student." She scrunched her eyes shut, wincing at her Freudian slip.

Neville's gaze dropped to his knees, as if he were weighted down with the words he wanted to say. He looked at her as he spoke. "I know. I know plants. 'Spend more time with them than people. I just…I just wanted you to know that I care about you."

She looked at him, looked at the kindness in his eyes, the sincerity in the lines of his mouth. She wasn't sure what to say. She felt the chlorophyll fill her cheeks, causing a green blush. She rubbed at her cheeks to make it go away, smearing dirt on her skin in the process. "That's a dangerous thing, Neville."

"You're the one in danger," he said. "I suggest you wear more closed-toe shoes."

She glanced down at her gardening sandals and the tiny, hair-like roots sprouting from her toes and creeping into the soil. She hastily covered her feet with the end of her robe, but she had a sinking feeling when she caught a couple of Slytherins casting glances her way.

Bramble flattened herself on her bed, forcing her eyes closed. She was the first one to turn in. She was far from sleepy, but she felt very odd in the commonroom. Hermione wouldn't leave her alone. She kept asking many little questions that made Bramble feel as if there was one very big question that she was really on her mind. Ron had been buzzing around Harry who was repeatedly rubbing his forehead. Other Gryffindors did little to conceal their interest in what was going on. Snape was right. She had been careless. That was her tragic flaw.

A sharp knock on the door. Bramble didn't bother to answer it, and it didn't matter anyway as Prof. McGonagall bustled in without bothering to wait. "Bramble, it's half past seven, dear, I know you're not asleep."

"Yes, I am," she muttered.

"Prof. Dumbledore would like to speak with you, if you could be so kind as to get dressed. He is in his office. I believe you know the way." She turned on her heel and left, closing the door behind her.

Hermione came in not two seconds later. "Bramble, Ron and I were wondering if you've had any odd dreams? Or visions, perhaps?"

Bramble sat up in bed, rubbing her face. "Yes, there is this one vision I keep getting. Something to do with a rather large cookie. Must be a summons to a quest. Quest for a cookie. No time like the present." She hopped off, changed clothes, all the while deflecting a whole round of questions from Hermione, one of which was why Bramble was always wearing a scarf or ribbon around her neck lately. "Dunno," she answered, "Chilly neck, I suppose."

Bramble reached from the doorknob, tugging her sweater down around her hips, and leaving her shoelaces for later. Hermione asked one last, desperate question. "Bramble, do you know where the rose is?"

Bramble sighed. "Yes, I know where it is. It is safe inside Hogwartz, under constant supervision. All day and all bloody night." She slipped out the door, nearly tripping over Crookskanks in the process.

She didn't want to go to Dumbledore. He was a nice enough man, but she had had too much experience with men who seemed the model of niceness. Sir Nicolas had been a very nice man, up until rumors began to circulate in the local village. Very nasty rumors, and completely false. Then he sold her a very narrow-minded, very rich wizard for a goodly sum of gold. She was always so eager to trust, eager to find a friend. But all to often, her friends became her enemies.

Without completely deciding, she walked past Dumbledore's office, her robe billowing out behind her, her legs doing the thinking. The thought began to throb in her head to get away, away, away. She found herself in greenhouse A without even thinking about it.

The glass house was quiet save for the nocturnal rustling of a few leafy plants. The sun had set an hour ago, but Bramble found her way to an empty patch of dirt in the corner. She put her head down on her knees. She wrapped her arms around her head. She let her toes sink into the soil, take root and spread through the cool earth. The soil had a story to tell. She listened to the heartbeat of the firmament, the slow pace of life underground. She let her flesh reform, stiffen, revert back to a network of thorny branches, glossy green leaves, topped with her own very special bud. This form was much more comfortable, and she soaked in the carbon dioxide with pleasure. She was so thoroughly self-occupied that it came as a shock to find herself not alone at all. Neville was there. He was smiling at her, his eyes alight. He turned on the overhead lights.

He inspected her from a respectful distance. He held a tin watering can in his hands. Without saying a word, he tipped it near her base, letting the cool, spring water soak in to her roots.

She wanted to thank him, let him know that it was more than the water that made her feel so soothed and safe. Warm feelings grew inside her, feelings both plant and person. She wanted to push them down, bottle them up, but without warning, the swelling bud blossomed into a lush rose, its petals the color of fire.

The screen door banged open, and Harry Potter, hero to many, bounded into the

greenhouse, Hermione and Ron close at his heels. He was breathing heavily and looking wildly about. "Neville, where is she? Where's Bramble?"

Neville leaned to one side a bit to obscure his view of Bramble. "What's up?" he said, making a valiant effort not to appear in any way shocked or amazed or in love or any of those emotions that might make Harry ask awkward questions.

"We think she knows where the rose is," said Hermione, clutching a stitch in her side. "And an important book has been stolen from the library, and we think Malfoy might be behind it. Harry bumped into him, and he was acting smug. Neville, why is your face so red?"

Neville dropped the tin watering can, and its liquid contents sloshed around his feet. He reached into a pocket of his robe and withdrew a small, leather-bound book. Gold leaf vines creeped up and down the age-browned cover. "I have to confess."

Hermione stepped up and snatched it out of his hands. "Neville! What are you doing with this?"

He stammered a few half-sentences, stopped, took a deep breath, and started over. His face was flushed with red. "I think I'm in love with Bramble," he said. He spoke this clear and loud, a declaration to the world.

A silence passed in which the three often-heroes tried to connect this new

information with the book. Hermione ventured a guess. "You were going to give it to her? Oh my God, Neville, what does she want with this book? What is she planning to do?"

"No." Neville closed his eyes and sighed. "No, no, it's not like that at all." He reached out for the book, but Hermione stepped back.

Hermione flicked a lock of mousy hair behind her ear, and drawing herself up to her full height with chest out, shoulders back, she launched herself into self-righteous lecture mode. But she didn't get far. The door to the greenhouse opened once more. It was Malfoy.

Pale blond, sharp-nosed Malfoy. His lip curled in disgust. "He was right. Prof. Snape was spot on." His narrowed eyes flitted from the book to Neville. He closed in on the red-faced young man, beating away any tendril that dare get in his way. "You people can't get enough. Sticking your noses where they don't belong. You have to feel real important, go where the action is. You think it's all about you, don't you? All of you? It's not over until you can bask in admiration and glory? Is that how you get your jollies?" He shoved Neville aside, toppling him over. The rose stood there in full bloom. "Get up. I know about you, Bramble Batoon. I overheard Snape. Trust me, the last place you want to be is in the company of these losers." His eyes were on the fantastic flower, it's petals aflame in color. He was so absorbed, he didn't even see Neville advance until he felt a head butt into his shoulder.

Malfoy stumbled sideways, knocking into a bench that, in turn, crashed through the glass pane. Several plants and two bodies spilled out into the night. Harry, Ron, and Hermione dashed outside, watching as Neville, berserk with rage, lashed out his fists with little accuracy.

"Get off me, you peon!" Malfoy grunted as he tried to free his wand from his robe.

After several awkward punches in quick succession to ear and arm and forehead, Neville managed to put his weight behind a solid punch to the jaw, almost by random chance, and Malfoy's teeth clicked together, and his head snapped back against the hard ground. Malfoy was out cold.

Harry grabbed Neville around the waist and pulled him back. Everyone stood back a moment to let him catch his breath.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Neville," said Ron with a touch of admiration.

"This isn't good," said Hermione. "You're going to get in a lot of trouble. He'll tell them that we were trying to steal the rose. He saw the book in my hands. I think we should just tell the truth. That's all we can do."

"What is the truth?" Bramble stepped out of the gap in the broken greenhouse wall. In her human form, the rose was at her throat like a brilliant pendant.

"We're just trying to help," said Hermione, who caught on quickly.

Bramble glanced at the book, still in Hermione's hand. She looked at Neville, wretched and gasping, tears in his eyes. He had blood on his knuckles.

"Where'd she come from?" whispered Ron into Harry's ear.

Despite doing her best to avoid it that evening, Bramble ended up in Dumbledore's office after all, joined by Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Malfoy. They stood in a semi-circle around the headmaster's enormous carved desk. Dumbledore scratched his nose, his crinkled eyelids squeezed shut. "It has been another eventful evening. We shall have to install new panes in the greenhouse. And Neville, you understand why you will have a week of detention. I do not tolerate violence. As for the book, it should go to its owner." He cast a charm on the book, and it floated into Bramble's hands.

It took her a moment to recognize it. "Hey, wait a minute! This was my diary. My diary from 1501. I'm indignant on several accounts at present. Why Hogwartz has my overdramatic rendition of a crush I had on a maple tree among its scholarly volumes, I won't begin to fathom. Why my boyfriend found it necessary to steal, well, _really_, Neville!"

Neville's head snapped up at the mention of "boyfriend." His face was a boiling embarrassment red, but he seemed to be doing his best to not break out in a grin.

Dumbledore chuckled. "We mean not to pry into your personal affairs. Your diary was part of the estate of Sir Nicolas, which was entrusted to the school upon his passing. We were keeping it safe."

Ron looked pale. "1501?" he whispered.

"Keep up, peabrain," muttered Malfoy.

"Which brings us to the next item on the agenda. Each of us is privy to a great secret. Our budding young lady here carries a powerful magic." Dumbledore nodded at Bramble.

"The ministry wanted to keep the flower, test it, see what makes it special, but I have refused. Dumbledore has been kind enough to let me stay here while the ministry fights among itself, trying to figure out if I am property or person. Prof. Snape tells me he would make an excellent keeper of the flower, but I think I'll hang on to it. The color suits me."

"It is your choice, of course," said Dumbledore. "As it has always been."

Bramble sighed, turning to face the crackling fire framed in the heavy stone fireplace. She tossed the diary in, thinking, he tried to keep this safe. How easily things get stolen around here. She fingered the rose at her throat, plucked a soft, velvet petal. "People have been making decisions for me all my life. For once, I think I want to be left alone." She tossed the petal into the fire, watched it sizzle in the hungry flames. The gas that was produced was thin, potent, and completely invisible. As she let her words sink in, so too did the gas. When she turned to face everyone, they had a blank, unfocused look. Even Dumbledore, who she had been uncertain about. "I'm a regular human being, just as you all are. Treat me like one." These words would sink in further, deep into their brains. The gas would wear off soon enough; she took her leave, gently closing the sturdy oak door behind her.


End file.
